on his 90th birthday, the columnist-protagonist of gabriel garcia marquez' latest novella "decided to give (him)self a gift of one night of crazy love with an adolescent virgen." then shit happens. transcendent shit.
the sleeping girl fails to be roused and the nonagenarian asshole of a hero falls for her, visiting her night after night in all her sleeping beauty splendor. "wake her, fuck her brains out with that burro's cock the devil gave you," another whore advised our hero.
it's always like this for me. the sweetest point of reading a good story is the coming to that shadowy cognition that i might have been told of this already at some other time. like realizing, after coitus, that i have already slept, perhaps, with this strange man splayed sweating in my bed.
a strange poem i have a vague recollection of starts out something like i will die in some beautiful city, paris, i believe, on a misty-is it?-or rainy day, on some day i can already remember.
this is where great stories sleep. somewhere around unrecoverable memories of death foretold and of the sweetest love savored only in the dark, witnessed only by solitude, and the rain, perhaps.
